Some of the conversations I have while preparing these stories are gentle tugs for information. Others, unexpectedly, feel like gifts. That’s how it felt sitting across from Jayda Dortch and Rylan Eller at Galesburg High School—two teenagers whose personalities couldn’t be more different, yet who share a common thread: each is learning, in his or her own way, how to navigate the world with confidence, independence, and grace.

They are part of Mrs. Traci Clary’s Life Skills and Community-Based Instruction (CBI) program, a place where academics meet real-life application and where lessons extend far beyond the four walls of a classroom. Traci’s work blends functional academics with social-emotional growth, daily living skills, job awareness, community navigation, and the careful, patient shaping of independence. “We celebrate every step forward,” she told me. “No matter how small it might look to someone on the outside, it’s huge for our kids.”

I understood exactly what she meant once the students began talking.

Jayda speaks with a softness that invites you to lean in. She has a thoughtful, almost reflective way of describing her goals—wanting to stay calm, wanting to worry less, wanting to take things “one step at a time.” When she said, almost quietly, “I want to have one moment in life,” it struck me that she was naming something deeply human: the desire to be present in her own story.

She tells me about the routines that help her—her classes, her teachers, the familiar flow of her day. She mentions Big Buddies. She talks about trying hard to make good decisions. She shares bits about her family life. Everything she says reveals a young woman learning not just skills, but self-awareness.

Traci watches her with the kind of pride only a teacher who knows the long road behind the progress can feel. “Jayda’s grown so much in her ability to communicate how she feels,” she said. “We work a lot on identifying emotions, problem-solving, and taking a pause. She’s starting to understand herself in ways that really matter.”

Rylan, meanwhile, bursts in and out of the conversation with bright, joyful energy. He talks about the snow, the bus, the chores he does at home, and the good days that feel really good. He smiles when he talks about helping—carrying things, completing tasks, doing what others need him to do. His pride is sincere, uncomplicated, and contagious.

“He’s come a long way with routines,” Traci told me. “He loves helping. He likes it when he feels responsible for something. So we build that into the day—jobs around the classroom, tasks he can own, expectations he can meet. When you give Rylan something meaningful to do, he shines.”

This balance—support, structure, and opportunity—is at the heart of the Life Skills program. Students practice everything from making purchases to reading schedules to navigating community spaces. They learn how to recognize emotions, communicate needs, solve conflicts, and take responsibility. It’s a blend of academic learning and real-world readiness, designed so that one day, these teenagers can step confidently into adulthood.

Sitting with them, you feel that long arc of growth. You feel the care behind it. And you realize how much of it is intentional.

Traci speaks with a steady warmth about what she hopes for her students. “Independence looks different for every kid,” she said. “But they all deserve to feel capable. They all deserve to feel proud. And they all deserve to be seen for who they are—not just the challenges they face, but the strengths they bring.”

As Jayda and Rylan continued talking, I found myself mostly listening—less interviewer, more witness. They didn’t speak in polished soundbites. They spoke with honesty. With feeling. With a sense of security that comes from being in a classroom where they are celebrated for who they are and supported in who they are becoming.

Their goals aren’t abstract. They are immediate and real: staying calm, helping others, understanding routines, and learning to trust themselves. But they are also stepping-stones—toward independence, toward confidence, toward lives in which they can participate fully, proudly, and joyfully.

When our conversation ended, it was Jayda’s quiet sentence that stayed with me:

“I want to have one moment in life.”

She meant it simply. But in that room—with her, with Rylan, with Traci—I realized I’d just experienced one myself.